


Neon

by FyrMaiden



Series: 2013 Klaine Advent [5]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4405337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel thinks her husband is playing away, and she thinks she knows with whom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neon

It’s a cold November night in the city. Outside, the rain hammers a heavy tattoo on the battered concrete buildings and runs slick rivers from storm drain to storm drain. Inside, there’s a heavy smell of burned stale coffee, expensive whiskey, and the subtler musk of a woman’s perfume. The frosted glass door is closed, and it refracts the buzzing neon of the sign on top of the building opposite. Lounging in a reclining desk chair is one Kurt Hummel, feet up on the desk, brown hair swept up off his forehead, a heavy tumbler held carelessly between thumb and index finger as he throws back the last dregs of neat scotch.

Opposite him sits a petite woman with dark brown hair rolled up in a neat chignon. In one delicate white-gloved hand she holds a cigarette holder, blue smoke curling from the lit cigarette it holds. Bright red lipstick stains the other end, barely visible but for the flickering overhead and the bursts of neon through the rain. From beneath the rim of her hat there’s the glitter of tears in her alert brown eyes. From outside comes the blast of a car horn and the screech of tires, and inside there’s the tiny fractured noise of a broken sob. She draws on her cigarette and blows a shaky stream of smoke towards the yellowing ceiling. When she finally speaks, her voice snaps with a very deliberate New York accent and he wonders where she picked it up. It doesn’t sound natural, and he doubts that she’s a native. She’s as imported as he is.

“They all say you’re the best,” she says, sliding a picture across the desk towards him. He swings his feet down and leans forward, picks it up and examines it closely, and then flicks whip sharp blue eyes back towards her shadowed face. Through the tears and the streaked mascara, he suddenly knows who she is. Rachel Anderson, nee Berry, star of stage and screen, the name illuminated on half the billboards downtown… and she’s sitting in his office with a picture of her husband on his desk.

“Help you with what?” he asks, voice soft and registering a little too high. She blinks at him, and he stares at the photograph. He’s seen it before, of course. It’s been in every magazine. He’s imagined what that soft mouth would feel like against his more than once. He pushes the picture back towards her before his pale skin can begin to give him away.

“I think he’s having an affair,” she says. Kurt nods and motions for her to continue, shoves himself to his feet and makes a show of pouring more whiskey into his glass, rattles the decanter to mask the shaking of his hands.

“It’s not my usual line of investigation, Mrs Anderson,” he says, turning slowly and hiding the twist of his mouth behind the rim of his glass, and shoots for impassivity when he meets her steady gaze.

“Mr Hummel,” she says. “There’s no need to hide from me. I’ve known Blaine for a very long time.”

Kurt drains the glass and puts it back on the cabinet, his hands shaking beyond his control now. “Oh?” he is all he says, and Rachel dabs at her eyes.

“I’ve been having him followed,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette in his ashtray. “By my own investigator. It’s why I’m here, really. They say you’re good, but you need to be better.”

She rises to her feet and flattens her dress across her stomach, refastens her coat around her shoulders and smiles at him, broad and open and unreadable. When she comes towards him, her head barely reaches his shoulder, but she’s terrifying in her forthright temerity. “Consider this a courtesy, Mr Hummel. If Blaine is caught, I can protect him. I won’t do the same for you. I won’t risk my career.”

Kurt nods his head, up and down, just once. “Wrong kind of lights,” he says, and she stands on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Quite so.”

She leaves a vacuum in her wake, and Kurt can only try to survive the inevitable crash. He closes the door and leans against it, and lets the flashing blues and greens of the sign across the road illuminate the angles of his face as he tries to gather control of his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> (This one got away from me as I tried to write it down. It's more of a single scene than an actual story. My bad.)


End file.
